


Funny Business

by hahaharley



Series: Bad Jokes [4]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Dark Knight (2008)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Action, Crimes & Criminals, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 05:48:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8434045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hahaharley/pseuds/hahaharley
Summary: Some days, being the Joker’s harlequin helper is as glamorous a job as it sounds—schmoozing with big names, acting as the right hand of the most powerful man in the city, and the like—but more often, Harley gets the feeling that she’s only there because the Lost Boys need a mother. Even one as shabbily suited to the job as she is.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The usual disclaimer applies; I don't own this general Batman playground and I am making no money, but don't try to pass off my work as yours because super uncool, etc etc. This falls roughly fourth in the Bad Jokes series for the time being (more on that after the story). I assume at this point you know the drill re: setting and background; if you don't, it'd probably be wise to click back to my pen name and start at the beginning of the series.
> 
> The rating generally covers bad people behaving badly and specifically covers a situation that could be read as dubcon typical of an abusive relationship founded on deceit and manipulation. Forewarned is forearmed, etc.
> 
> I apologize in advance for this. This is much less "valuable piece of fiction with arcs and structure that contributes to the verse as a whole" and much more "a day in the messy life, with bonus henchmen!" It was also intended to be like twenty pages long and ended up as thirty-three, because I have no control over anything. I thought about splitting it in two, but that seemed a bit pointless—I find that I enjoy long one-shots, so I'll just have to hope that y'all are like me in that regard. Go forth and... enjoy?

A couchbound Joker, while something of a relief for Gotham as a whole, can prove a difficult customer (if not an outright nightmare) for those of us caught more permanently in his orbit.

It was early October, and it started, as so many things do, with the two of us fleeing the scene of a crime. The police hadn't arrived, but Batman certainly had, and though J had been no more forthcoming with the details of his overall plan than usual (which wasn't very), I'd gathered that _this_ time, Batman's attention _wasn't_ the point. The errand had been a supply run of sorts, something to contribute to a plan down the line, and as far as these sorts of things went, we were being fairly quiet, breaking into a medical warehouse downtown, taking what we needed… then, Tall, Dark, and Humorless himself showed up and turned the place into a miniature war zone.

The Joker and I split immediately. It meant cutting loose the second carload of loot and the henchmen currently keeping the Bat busy, but it wasn't a good time to get caught—he had plans in motion, shit going on, and _I_ just wasn't keen on being locked away in the Asylum again.

So we ran, heading to the roof and taking advantage of the tight-knit buildings in that part of town to hop quickly from rooftop to rooftop before finally scaling down a fire escape once we reached the block where the getaway car, manned by Spider, was idling. That was where we ran into trouble, and it was _not_ my fault.

I was in the lead, reached the drop-off of the fire escape, and, prompted by my racing heart and the thrill of a narrow escape, I jumped, turned a pair of quick somersaults in midair, and stuck the landing like a champ, just for the hell of it. The Joker seemed inspired by my example: he didn't bother trying to replicate the flips, because even _he_ had to know it was all too likely that he'd just bust his ass, but when he jumped, he attempted to stick his landing, too.

Key word there being "attempted." He buckled almost immediately, collapsing as his right foot gave out.

Though time was short, I didn't immediately move to help him, perching my hands on my hips and staring at him in disbelief. "Are you _kidding_ me right now?"

"Aughhh," was the only response I got.

"You are _so_ smarter than this. I know you've _got_ to know that the average person's gotta tuck and roll after a drop. You have to have _training_ to just _stick it_ without getting hurt _._ I've got a total of twelve _years_ of training, J—do _you_ have any training?"

He told me to fuck off, and seeing that he was actually having some problems with getting that foot back under him, I abandoned the lecture and went to help him. The fact that he accepted my shoulder to lean on despite the fact that I'd _just_ finished bitching at him was worrisome; the amount of weight he was putting on me was more so. I started to think that we were dealing with more than just a twisted ankle, but it was hardly the time to say so.

We got to the car quickly and without any sign of further trouble. The Joker fell sprawled across the backseat; I wedged myself into the little gully between the front seats and the back and yanked the door shut behind us. "Bat trouble," I told Spider before he could ask. "Get us out of here, please, as quietly as you can."

He obeyed, easing the car from the alley, glancing in the rearview mirror as he went and asking, "What happened to _him_?"

I glanced at the Joker. He glared at me, just _daring_ me to tell Spider the truth. "Nothing serious," I said without breaking eye contact, though I let my eyes crinkle at J to let him know that I, for one, thought it was sort of funny. "Just a little getaway mishap."

Spider nodded, knowing better than to pry, and turned his focus to getting us out safely and without incurring suspicion. I figured it'd be easiest for him to do that if the two clowns in his backseat stayed out of sight, so I stayed put on the floor, and for his part, the Joker didn't seem particularly keen to sit up from where he was lying on his back, knees pulled up so that his long frame could fit on the short bench seat. This put me right next to the injured foot, and I decided I might as well see what we were dealing with.

"Harley," he said warningly, craning his neck to peer at me as soon as my fingers touched his pant leg.

"Ah," I said quickly and stubbornly, cutting him off as I lifted the cuff free from his shoe. "I'm just checking to see how bad it is."

He blew an annoyed gust of air through his lips, but this appeared to be one of the rare battles he just didn't feel like fighting, and after a moment, it became apparent why: he dropped his head back onto the seat and announced, almost wistfully, to the roof of the car, "I tell ya, there are times when I think Batman and me just… aren't _meant to be_. All this bad timing, all theee, uh, _missed connections._ What's a guy gotta do to hang on to a stable relationship in this town, anyway?"

Typically, when he took this line with his rambling ( _oh, Batman and me, soulmates are we,_ yada yada), it annoyed me, but just then, it freed me up to do more or less what I pleased, which at the moment was to inspect the injury. I spent a minute probing the ankle through the sock (more muted today than usual, a purple floral pattern to match his shirt, green vine accents woven through), and then looked up at him with a frown.

"It's already starting to swell," I announced, interrupting the latest rendition of _no, no no, mustn't doubt myself, everyone knows it's destiny._

He seemed a little thrown off. He glanced at me mid-sentence, stopped, propped his arm under his head so he could look at me properly, and said, politely, "Ah. _So?_ "

" _So_ we should get you to see the doctor."

I waited for the realization to kick in, and when it did, I was ready with my arguments. His eyes went wide, just for half a second, then, harshly and emphatically, he declared, "Over _my dead body_."

"Look, it's not exactly like you can go to the hospital—"

"—senile old bat—"

"—might just be a bad sprain but if it's swelling that much already—"

"—paper skin hands creeping all over me, no _thank_ you—"

"—could be a fracture and that'll get worse without treatment—"

"—place always smells like sour cabbage, what _is_ that—"

"Oh, my god, are you twelve? _Are_ you twelve?"

" _We_ have a perfectly good medic at _home_."

It took me a second to process what he was saying, then, in disbelief, I asked, "Are you talking about Harris?" A defensive blink served as confirmation, and I said, "You're kidding. J, when Spider broke his thumb, Harris recommended _amputation_ —and he was _dead serious._ "

"Well, he had some compelling arguments."

I narrowed my eyes at him, because it was getting ridiculous. With the heel of my hand, I tapped the toe of his shoe, making his foot twist and pulling a sharp hiss out of him, as well as instant retaliation—he cuffed me hard on the temple, driving my head into the back of Spider's seat. Spider, wisely, said nothing, and I straightened up, glaring at the Joker just as ferociously as he was glaring at me.

"Look," I said at length, with forced patience, "you're determined not to go, that's fine. Your body, ultimately your call. But if it _is_ a fracture, you're going to end up going anyway to get the bone set, and that'll be _much_ worse. And let me tell you something else, too—unless you take measures to _treat_ the injury, there is _no way_ I'm going to help you with it."

"Is that so," he said, watching me with narrowed eyes, but after seeing him fuck up his landing so badly, I wasn't feeling particularly scared of him at the moment.

"Yeah, that's so," I said flatly. "I'm not interested in enabling you into a complete physical breakdown."

" _Enabling,_ " he mouthed, pulling a disgusted face.

"So you don't want to go to the doctor, fine," I continued stubbornly, "but if you _don't,_ it'll be the boys fetching and carrying for you, _not_ me."

He looked sharply at me. It was a fact known but unspoken—at least in front of most of their number—that the boys (while good at smashing, detonating, battering, beating, or anything else that required a rough touch), were, as a rule, absolutely hopeless when it came to finer points. Trying to get any or all of them to play nursemaid effectively would be like asking Batman to join you in a line dance: it just wasn't going to happen.

At length, he dropped his head with a growl, signifying that he was finished with the argument. I grinned, just as quickly wiped it away, and leaned forward to address Spider. "Take us to Anfisa's, okay?"

"You got it," he said a little wryly.

"Guess now's as good a time as any to get rid of her," the Joker commented loudly.

I ignored him. Though there was always a chance he was serious, I thought it was more likely he was just acting out because he knew I was right. And if he was serious… well, we lost personnel all the time. We'd just find a new medic.

I stretched my arm out on the edge of the seat next to him, pillowed my head on it, and tried to calm my still-racing heart. The adrenaline was still thrumming through my veins from the close call with the Bat, and I wasn't entirely convinced that we were out scot-free. We'd been lucky slipping from his grasp more often than not lately, and I couldn't quite shake the idea that the luck was going to run out.

 _It's all going to be all right,_ I told myself, choosing to believe it, because really, what other choice did I have? _Just breathe._

* * *

After George disappeared (most of the guys believed he'd gotten killed in the shootout with Penguin's men the previous month, and that worked for me), we were in a tight spot vis à vis medical care for a bit. I checked with the guys and found that the most qualified of them was a guy in his twenties called Harris who, it turned out, had taken a first aid class at summer camp when he was a teenager.

Needless to say, he wasn't really cutting it, but he was the best we had. Even so, I wouldn't let him touch me.

So one night, during a standard bit of nonsense, busting up a jewel shop to make some noise and money, I got caught on a piece of jagged glass and tore a good hole in the back of my arm—nothing crazy, but it was bleeding something fierce, and I could tell it was going to need stitches.

"Shit," I said as we bundled into the van and I felt the warm gush of blood rolling down the back of my arm. "Shit fuck."

"Damn, Harl," said Stacks, one of our newer recruits, a brown-bearded white guy of about thirty who had an almost comically loud and husky voice and who I'd never seen not wearing a black beanie. "We gotta get you to Harris."

"Um, _hell_ no," I said as I cracked open the basic little first aid kit we kept in all our cars and yanked out some gauze, bunching it up and jamming it against the gash with a hiss. "I can get an infection just fine on my own."

Stacks made a disapproving noise, but I didn't care. I was too busy trying to figure out how I was going to get patched up without letting Harris get his grubby hands on me. The Joker wasn't with us, which gave me some time—if he'd been there, he'd have flat-out told me that Harris was going to stitch me up and that was that. If I argued, he'd hold me down himself, and I knew him better than to think he'd be gentle about it. That or he'd just leave me to bleed. I didn't feel like gambling.

I was going to have to stitch it up myself, hope that I could sneak past everyone and tend to it quickly. I wasn't looking forward to it—I was fine with needles, I'd stitched up J plenty of times, but something about suturing my own skin gave me the heebie-jeebies.

That was when our driver, a big quiet Russian called Aleksis, spoke up. "You want someone else should stitch you up?"

I glanced at Stacks, then met Aleksis's gaze in the rearview mirror. "You offerin', Slick?" I asked, letting my eyes twinkle a little.

He shook his head. "My babushka—she lives round the corner. Was nurse back in Russia."

My smile vanished immediately at the prospect of a new medic with actual qualifications, and I raised an eyebrow instead. "Good nurse?"

"The best."

"And… how is she going to feel about patching up someone who obviously has reason not to go to the hospital?"

He looked at me through the rearview mirror. "Why do you think she's no longer in Russia? It's… family business. Well. Except for my brother." I raised an eyebrow, and he said, wryly, "He doesn't like the stereotype."

I laughed aloud, wondering why I'd never really talked to Aleksis, he was _delightful_ —or maybe that was just the blood loss speaking. Reminded of the injury that needed tending, I sat back and nodded. "Okay, fine. Take me to her."

Anfisa ended up being immensely capable. Certainly, her dark little apartment had a faint— _faint!_ —cabbage-y smell, and she was a little odd—of indeterminate age (" _Old,_ " the Joker said definitively, as though it didn't matter beyond that), perpetually nightgowned, and she spoke only Russian (and pretty much spoke constantly, regardless of whether Aleksis—who she called Sasha—was there to translate).

She was also a whiz of a nurse. That first night, she stitched me up so well, I didn't even scar.

Before even seeing how good she was, on the basis of the fact that she sterilized her equipment before touching me (a low bar, I know, but important to me after I'd witnessed Harris use the same needle on _several_ people), I asked Aleksis how she'd feel about going on retainer for a gang of criminals. After a brief conversation with her, he reported that she could use something to keep her hands busy. So she became our medic.

J hated her.

The night of the busted foot, Aleksis wasn't around to translate, and once we'd helped J inside (though in all honestly, it'd felt more like wrestling him—just because he'd basically yielded didn't mean he intended to make things easy for us), I indicated the problem foot.

She replied in her own language and got to work. The Joker eyed her with open malevolence as she reached for his ankle. "I'm gonna kick you right in your dried-apple ol' face," he announced to her.

"You _better_ not!" I exclaimed, slightly alarmed, as Spider—presumably glad to have an excuse to duck away—answered his ringing cell phone.

The Joker, rudely, pointed at Anfisa, who was addressing him in response, and though none of the three of us spoke Russian, her tone of cronish disapproval was universal. "She's _cussing_ at me, Harley."

"You do _not_ speak Russian."

"Oh, how would _you_ know," he muttered crabbily, slouching deep in his chair, but it seemed to deflate him a little (and I'm sure the long night on the tail end of seventy-two hours straight spent awake didn't help).

Reassured that he was not going to kick an old lady in the face, at least not right away, I tuned into Spider's conversation right as he said, "Arrested? How many?"

"And who?" I added, pitching my voice to get his attention, and he repeated my question into the phone.

The Joker, thinking he was in the clear because my attention was turned elsewhere, muttered to Anfisa, "Your days are _number-ed._ "

I whirled, jabbing a finger threateningly at him. " _Hey._ "

"What?" he snarled back.

Spider took the phone's speaker away from his mouth and said to me, "Seven of the guys. Doherty, Mex, Ace—"

" _Ace?_ " I repeated, and cackled.

"I'm glad you think it's funny that my help is getting arrested," the Joker groused behind me.

I resisted the urge to accuse him of being grumpy because of his injury and instead just said, "He's had it coming a long time, we all know it."

Anfisa rose abruptly and said something in Russian. The Joker cocked his head and licked his lips, looking up at her with bright-eyed attention, exaggerated enough that no one could miss that he was faking it. I shot him a split-second glance of disapproval that he didn't see (wouldn't have mattered if he had), then said to her, "What's that?"

She paused, looked around, then grabbed a pencil from a cup on the end table and snapped it in half in one quick motion. She looked at me to make sure I was paying attention, then pointed at the Joker's ankle and wagged her finger. _No._

"See?" the Joker said immediately. "Not broken."

I allowed myself a sigh of relief, then steeled up again. "But sprained?" I asked, placing my closed fists together and twisting them in opposite directions.

Anfisa nodded, and mumbled as she moved into the kitchen. She was back in a flash, and sank into a spare chair, then lifted her leg up high.

" _Ugh_ ," said the Joker, theatrically looking away, but I watched as she pressed a clattering handful of ice to her ankle.

"Ice and elevation. Got it," I said brightly.

"Ice and elevation," mocked the Joker. "Couldn't have come up with _that_ on our own."

"Well," I said with exaggerated patience as I stepped towards Anfisa, pulling out a wad of bills and counting a few off for her, "if _I'd_ recommended it, would you have listened?"

" _Harley,_ " he replied, matching my tone exactly, "you really think I'm gonna listen to _her_ instead?" I shot him a look, half-disapproving and half affectionate, over my shoulder, so of course he added, "Then _again,_ she at least _possibly_ has some kind of medical degree."

"I'm not going to respond to that _,_ " I fired back as Anfisa patted my shoulder with transparent sympathy. By that point, it would have been obvious to the deaf and the blind that I was in for a rough time.

* * *

It took a while for me to start reaping the consequences of the devil's bargain I'd made.

After we got back to the hideout, the Joker allowed me to help him to the room we sometimes shared, though I suspected it was only so he could hit me a few times with his impossibly sharp elbows on the way (he was catlike in that regard, tolerating contact just so he could have access to vulnerable spots).

(He would also murder me slowly and painfully if he knew there was any part of me making comparisons between him and a housecat, but what with his generally erratic and violent nature, said comparisons drew themselves.)

He shook me off and maneuvered his way to the bed, and he must have really been tired, because he lowered himself down, turned on his side with his back to me, and immediately fell asleep.

 _Well. That's unexpected,_ I thought, frowning at the knotted back of his head. Usually, injured Joker was even more contrary than healthy Joker, more determined to drive himself into exhaustion, whether because it gave him a masochistic thrill or because he delighted in driving me crazy. Yielding so easily to the rest he clearly needed was unlike him. I hoped it didn't signify something worse than just the sprained ankle.

I put those thoughts out of my head—the Joker, in his more indulgent moods, teased me often about making up for the fact that _he_ never worried by worrying enough for the _both_ of us, and while sometimes my overthinking saved us from some unforeseen consequences, I couldn't see any potential benefits for it in this case.

I didn't stick around—he needed sleep, and even when I was being quiet, my conscious presence had a way of rousing him. I took off, leaving him alone to rest.

We were currently staying at the bottom floor of a condemned housing project in the Narrows. After the easy matter of clearing out some squatters who'd been making their home, we'd set up shop just over a week ago. I always preferred the places that were originally designed as residences to the warehouses and old shops we sometimes found ourselves in—they were by nature much homier. We mostly occupied the block of apartments furthest from the street, and the boys had taken to renovating, i.e. taking sledgehammers to mold-infested walls to "open up the space." I suspected that it had more to do with feeding their insatiable lust for destruction, but fewer walls made it easier to keep an eye on them, and as long as they left places for people (read: me) to hole up and sleep in peace, I wasn't going to complain.

I passed through the huge recreational space that we had as a result of the boys' endeavors, towards the foremost kitchen. We had several kitchens as a consequence of the location, but this was the one I'd bleached the shit out of and told everyone to use—there were two guys in there now, and I leaned a hip against the doorframe and crossed my arms, raising an eyebrow at the sight.

The more obvious figure was Ty, a lanky black guy a few years younger than I was, impossibly loud, impossibly tall, with a flat, deadpan sense of humor I found infectious and a permanent crafty glow in his eyes. He was a troublemaker, constantly instigating fights with the other guys (he thought it was especially funny to prod at the ones who took themselves too seriously), and I tried to keep a close eye on him, because I knew _he_ knew he was one of my favorites, and he had a history of using that to his advantage.

Currently, he was standing on the countertop, head ducked to avoid hitting the ceiling, rifling through one of the buckling top cabinets, and as I arrived in the doorway, he was belting out, "Man, I don't give a _fuck_ about the Geneva Convention."

He was talking, presumably, to the room's other occupant, Deni, who was short and stocky, light-skinned and dark-haired, around my age, more clean-cut than a lot of our guys, and a lot less talkative. I tended to keep an eye on Deni, too, though for less personal reasons—years ago, he had been one of the Chechen's guys who'd been press-ganged into our operation when the Joker killed his boss (I'd told the Joker that, historically speaking, this was not really an effective way to recruit; he'd talked circles around me in response but the gist was that he disagreed). I felt a little guilty about it, since technically he'd been with our operation longer than I had, but he'd been serving a stint in prison when I first joined up and got out while I was imprisoned in Arkham, so we didn't know each other well, and his taciturn personality meant that nothing had changed in that respect.

I felt a little bad about my suspicion that he was just waiting around to betray us, given how long he'd been around, but I'd been backstabbed one too many times of late, Deni presumably had motive to hurt us, and I didn't love the idea of letting my guard down just so it could happen again. Dish best served cold and all that.

Though Ty was turned half away from the door, my arrival put me in Deni's eye line—he was standing in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed, watching Ty do whatever he was doing, and when he spotted me he cleared his throat, loudly (at least as far as Deni was concerned).

Ty immediately looked over his shoulder, quickly and guiltily enough that I knew he was up to something—as if the fact that he'd felt the need to haul his entire 6'4, 150-pound frame all the way up on the counter wasn't suspicious enough. I narrowed my eyes at him and said, "Hi, Ty."

"Uh. Hi, Harley."

"Whatchya lookin' for?"

He shot me a hunted look. "Um… cereal?"

I raised an eyebrow, glanced at Deni, whose poker face told me nothing, then passed through the kitchen to the row of counters opposite Ty, opened one at eye level, and pulled out a box of chocolate cereal.

"Aw, man, that's that store brand shit," Ty objected vehemently.

Deni coughed, a pointed noise which I interpreted to mean _it doesn't matter and you're overplaying your hand._ Ty took the hint and dropped from the counter, and, sensing that I'd find out less if I asked what they were up to outright than if I just let them stew a bit, I didn't say anything, just held out the box.

Ty snatched the box from my hand, barked "Thanks!", and practically bolted from the kitchen, followed instantly by a silent Deni. I frowned at the suddenly empty space, then hopped up onto the counter where Ty had been and checked the cabinets he'd been going through. All I got for my trouble was the sight of an impressively huge cockroach, lying dead on its back—the cabinets were otherwise empty.

I put the weird encounter on my mental back burner. Subtlety wasn't our guys' strong suit; if this was something that could cause a problem, it'd pop back up—it didn't seem prudent to start worrying till then.

Aside from the cereal I'd just handed over to Ty, we had practically no food, and I made a mental note to send someone out to buy a shitload of groceries later and made do with two little bags of mini pretzels still within their expiration date.

Given that it was 4 AM by then, I _should_ have gone to bed after taking the edge off my appetite, barred myself in one of the intact bedrooms I'd marked as mine and passed out in a nest of sleeping bags, but I was wired after the events of the night, and instead found myself out in the rec space with a group of the guys. They were playing some old split-screen death match video game that prompted a lot of cursing and threats, and I stationed myself on an ottoman in view of the screen and practiced picking various handcuff locks behind my back with a paper clip.

(I preferred to practice picking cuffs when the Joker was out, asleep, or otherwise occupied. First time, I'd entrusted him with the key, and when I'd grown tired of the fruitless endeavor, I'd asked him to let me go. He'd refused. I should have seen it coming, but no amount of begging, yelling, pleading, or threatening would make him budge, and when I'd finally by some fluke of luck managed to spring the lock after an hour and gone to find him, pissed off and looking for blood, his only reply was "Well, you _learned,_ didn't you?" After that, I kept a key in my back pocket, within easy reach, but given that the Joker was not averse to picking me up and searching my pockets for that key while I was half-incapacitated, I only really felt comfortable honing those skills when I was pretty sure he wouldn't suddenly come along and ramp my practice up to expert mode.)

After I grew bored of that, the guys had finished their game and switched to the TV. There was some grumbling about the remote control being missing, then some arguing over who would get up and change the channel, which died down into reverent near-silence when they realized Lady Snowblood was playing. I'd never seen it, and ended up on the couch wedged between Spider and Stacks, eyes wide and mouth slightly open as I took in all the gore. TV blood was always better than the real thing.

The natural result of all this was that when the Joker finally roused himself around 10 AM, I'd been up for almost 24 hours, and I was just starting to feel drowsy and contemplate taking a quick nap when his familiar gravelly shout ripped through the hideout: "HAR- _LEY_!"

"I think the boss wants you, Harl," said Stacks helpfully.

I leveled a shriveling look at him ("What'd I do?" he asked Spider over my head), hauled myself off the couch, and hiked across the house to answer the call.

The Joker, as was his preference, had holed up in the furthest room from the general living area. I paused outside of the door for a moment, flashing suddenly to the other times the Joker had played the invalid—the time he'd been deathly ill the winter before, then the horrible night the previous month when he'd come home with a hole in his shoulder, leaking blood like he didn't need it. My heart skipped a beat at the thought, and I closed my eyes, pressing my forehead against the door for a moment, trying to quell the sudden surge of anxiety.

"HAR- _LEY_!"

He was starting to sound impatient. I opened my eyes and rallied myself. This time, I wasn't putting myself in his crosshairs by forcing him to stay put, and this time, it was just a minor injury, a sprained ankle, not a life-threatening gunshot wound. _It'll be all right,_ I told myself, took a deep breath, and went into the room.

The Joker was maneuvering himself to the edge of the bed, and glanced up briefly at the creak of the door. " _You_ look like you just got hit by a train," he commented offhand, lowering his bare feet carefully to the floor.

I scowled reflexively. _Not nice._ "Yeah? Well, _you_ look—" He peered suddenly up at me, eyes bright and curious, and I thought better of finishing that thought, because at best he'd hold it over my head and make me feel guilty for saying something mean about him (even in jest) indefinitely. "—like one million dollars," I sighed in defeat, and he snorted contemptuously (though I'd be hard-pressed to say whether the sentiment was directed towards my perceived lack of spine or my assessment of his looks) but moved along to his reason for calling me:

"Get me a crutch," he said impatiently.

I raised an eyebrow in disbelief. _He just got a good six hours of sleep while I've been up all night, and_ _ **he's**_ _the one who gets to be short? I am not playing that game._ "How 'bout I get you an ice pack instead?" I asked, eyeing his foot carefully. He still had his suit pants on, and they effectively hid my view of his ankle—I was weighing the idea of going over and stooping to check his ankle up close against the (generous) possibility of getting kicked in the face while I was down there, when he sighed loudly, drawing my attention back to his face. _Ah, shit,_ I thought, reading the familiar frown creases in the paint; _he's getting pissed._

"I didn't _ask_ for an ice pack," he said in that tone of exaggerated patience I _really_ hated. "I asked for a _crutch._ "

 _Technically, you didn't_ _ **ask**_ _for anything,_ I thought, but after nearly a year of living with him, I knew better than to say it out loud. Instead, gently, I said, "It'll heal faster if you stay off it and ice it down."

He sat perfectly still for a moment, hands braced on his knees, head tilted as he studied me. For a moment, he did nothing but suck quietly at the inside of a scar, then said, "Do you re _mem_ ber what happened the last time you tried to keep me off my feet when I had work to do?"

I felt the panic crawling up again and tried to shove it out of the way before I spoke, to keep it out of my voice. "This isn't that."

He screwed up his face and said with false regret, "It's kinda starting to _look_ like that."

"I—"

My voice failed me. It wasn't even in the same _realm_ as his forced imprisonment at my hand all those months ago, and I knew it, but I couldn't make myself say so. All I could think at that moment was that if I pushed too hard, nagged too much, then he'd send me right back to Arkham. So I swallowed my arguments and looked down at my feet until he spoke again.

"Come _here,_ " he said quietly.

Obediently, I walked over to stand in front of him. He exhaled through his nose, then reached up with both hands, closing his fingers around my wrists and swiping his thumbs idly down across my palms. "Harley," he said absently, then tipped his head back and looked me in the eye. "Ah… pumpkin. You know better than this. The work… doesn't… _stop._ So, uh, get me a crutch before I gouge your goddamn _eyes_ out."

A soft, stuttering exhale escaped my lungs as if squeezed out, and for some reason, I couldn't draw a breath to replace it. The Joker narrowed his eyes a little bit, smiling there if not through the mouth, and then, still looking me right in the eye, he lifted one of my hands, the left, drawing it up until his lips made contact, gently, with the smooth spot of skin between my thumb and forefinger. He lingered over it for a minute, gaze unwavering, then lifted his head and said, " _Please_."

It took me a moment to move, mostly because I wasn't sure my knees would hold me right away. The mix of fear and attraction was potent, made me feel temporarily boneless, and as I looked him in those black-rimmed eyes, I thought, _damn, but I love you._

He dropped my hands abruptly and swatted me twice on the butt, breaking the spell. "C'mon, Harley," he barked, making me start. "You're burning _dayl_ ight."

I snapped out of it and managed to give him a little sarcastic smile. "Aye, aye," I said, lifting two fingers in the most half-assed salute ever made, and then left the room to attempt to find him a damn crutch.

Easier said than done.

"What do you _mean,_ we don't have a crutch?" I demanded a few minutes later. "We're like the most accident-prone operation on the planet, guys bust their legs every two seconds, and we don't have a _single crutch_?"

Harris, supposedly the stand-in medic for injuries that didn't warrant Anfisa's attention, barely looked up from his hand of cards. "I don't know what you want me to say, Harley. We're badly equipped on the best of days, and we move around a lot. Plenty of shit gets left behind. If we ever had one, we sure as hell don't now."

"What about a cane? Anything like that?"

Harris pulled a card from his hand and played it upright on the table. "Nope."

"You are the world's _worst_ medic," I told him furiously, hands perched on my hips. "We were _just_ at a hospital warehouse."

"Oh, excuse me for not being psychic! What, I'm supposed to keep us stocked up for every possible injury?"

" _Yes,_ " I said emphatically. "Why do you think we let you sit out the firefights? You're supposed to be thinking ahead, getting ready for inevitable injuries—it's your _job_ to be prepared to take care of everyone!"

"C'mon, what do you want me to do?" he drawled, slouching in his chair.

" _What you agreed to do,_ " I snapped, flattening my palm against the cards he held and pushing them down to the tabletop. "Otherwise, you can head out there with the _brave_ guys and face fire like _they_ do every day."

Harris glared at me, I glared back, and it might have come to blows if Deni hadn't cleared his throat from across the room.

I turned to look at him, and silently, he held up a hockey stick.

"What the—" I started.

"It's better than nothing, huh?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow and gesturing with the stick.

I frowned. "Where did you even find that?"

He shrugged, suddenly abashed. "Some of us like to play in the street. Y'know, sometimes."

I stared for a minute before letting my face relax a bit, shooting him a wry smile. " _Thank_ you," I said emphatically, glancing sideways at Harris, who muttered something inaudible and picked up his cards again. "He's going to give me shit for it, but until we can actually get something legitimate, it'll do." He nodded and handed over the stick—it was almost as tall as I was, which meant it would fit comfortably under J's shoulder. "Thanks," I said, shot one more glare in Harris's direction, and headed back to the Joker.

He wasn't impressed.

Miraculously, he was actually still sitting on the bed, waiting for me to return rather than trying to get around on his busted foot, and when I arrived in the doorway, he looked pointedly at the stick and said, "What're you… gonna _hit_ me with that?"

I flashed him a wicked smile, then crossed into the room and stretched the stick out towards him. "Your crutch."

He glanced at the stick, then at me, then back to the stick again. He didn't say _are you serious;_ didn't need to—I raised my eyebrows emphatically and said, "I _told_ you Harris is a fuckup. There's not a proper crutch in the place; this'll have to do for now."

He rolled his eyes, a split second expression of exasperation, then snatched the stick from me and rose, standing on his good foot and wedging the makeshift crutch into his armpit. He shot me a poisonous smile and with false cheer, asked, "Would you look at that? Fits like a glove."

I held up my hands, a placating gesture. "It's just temporary, okay? I can run out right now and get you a real one."

"No," he said shortly, hobbling across the room towards the bathroom. "I want you _here._ " Before I could reply, he shut the bathroom door behind him.

 _Great._ I sighed, worried my bottom lip for a second, then moved over to sit down on the edge of the bed—

—only to jump right back up and reach beneath the covers to retrieve the hard object I'd sat on, a little handgun. "Oh, for fuck's—" I muttered, inspecting it. I checked the magazine, which was full, and on a hunch, I ejected a live round from the chamber. "Safety off, fully loaded, he is going to roll over and shoot himself in the head someday," I muttered, placing the magazine and gun on the little wooden crate that served as a nightstand.

The shower started running, and I rolled my eyes. _Hell of a time to get gussied up,_ I thought, but I smothered that tiny voice in my head fretting that he would lose his footing in the shower and bust his head open on the faucet— _yeah, right, he'll stay upright out of sheer pride_ —and glanced over at his desk.

Crutches and food and clothing and guns might be left behind as we moved from hideout to hideout, furniture and beds and the layout always varied widely, but there was one fixed point in all of our safe houses: the Joker's desk. It was never the same one—moving furniture was too unwieldy; it made no sense to get fixated on any of it—but he always had one, his center of operations, stuffed full with notes, papers, electronics, makeup, and weapons. Back when I first took up with him, I was afraid to even touch it, but over time, working as his right hand, I'd grown familiar with it by necessity.

I moseyed over to the desk and searched through it, avoiding the bottom drawer, which I knew was stuffed with canisters of his experimental laughing gas—all different levels of unstable. Instead, I looked around through the top, searching through the papers there till I found a torn piece with a name and number on it. I found a pen, scratched a copy of the information on the inside of my wrist, then put the paper back and closed the drawer, just the way I found it.

I looked longingly at the bed, but the sleepless night was making my eyelids heavy and I knew if I lay down, then I'd fall asleep instantly, so I opted instead to sit in the hard, uncomfortable desk chair, waiting the Joker out. The shower turned off after a bit, I heard him moving around for a few moments, then the door snapped open.

No steam billowed out with him—I couldn't help but shake my head; he knew full well that six hours of sleep after seventy-two awake wasn't sufficient but he was being stubborn, taking a cold shower to really wake him up. His paint was fresh, he was rubbing at the back of his damp head with a towel, and he'd put on pants, but hadn't bothered with the rest.

My eyes lingered on him appreciatively. He'd never been the type to _ripple_ , looked nothing like what I imagined Batman looked like beneath that armor, but a hectic, mobile life combined with the fact that he simply never ate as much as I thought he should rendered him cut in a wiry, stringy way. His shoulders always looked broader when they weren't covered up, tapering down to a narrow waist with abdominal muscles just visible if he tensed, and my eyes caught on his jutting hipbones, the path of dark hair trailing down from his navel.

I swallowed past the sudden dryness in my throat.

Though nothing could convince me he didn't preen at least a little bit when I looked at him like I'd like to devour him, he never let me ogle for long. He tossed the towel aside, took up his makeshift crutch, and came over, reaching me in just a few jerky strides. "Up," he said impatiently, gripping the back of the chair and shaking it hard to dislodge me even as I moved to obey. " _My_ seat."

I sighed drolly and strode over to the bed, dropping down onto the edge, but no sooner had I taken a seat than he barked, "Coffee," not even looking at me as he leveraged himself down into the vacated desk chair.

I paused. Although I knew it was useless, I couldn't help but say, softly, "You know, more sleep would help you heal—"

" _Harley,_ " he said in a tone that brooked no argument, head already bent over whatever project he'd decided to focus on.

"Right," I muttered, getting up. If this day was going to be as difficult as I imagined, I could actually use some coffee as well, so I didn't fight anymore, just slipped out of the room to get a pot brewing.

Aside from Harris's group playing cards, the hideout was fairly quiet, with henchmen sleeping in side rooms or off visiting girlfriends or boyfriends or getting into trouble, whatever they did when they weren't at headquarters and weren't needed. Ty and Stacks, then, huddled away in a corner, stuck out like a sore thumb to me—doubly so because they were _whispering,_ something I hadn't thought either of them capable of before that day. On a whim, I looked beyond them, and sure enough, I spotted Deni skulking around the corner behind them, disappearing from view a second later.

I made a detour, and noted the way Ty's eyes lit on me with something like alarm over Stacks' shoulder, the way they clammed up immediately at my arrival—much like he and Deni had when I'd walked in on them in the kitchen earlier. I gave them a bright smile, looked from one guilty face to the other, and asked, "What's up?"

"Nothin," said Stacks at the same time Ty answered, "Chillin'."

"Uh-huh," I said, maintaining the smile but narrowing my eyes. "Shouldn't you guys be getting some sleep? You were up all night with the rest of us, weren't you?"

"Yeah," said Stacks in his usual loud tones. "I was just saying, I'm beat."

"Uh, me too," said Ty. "Night, Harley." Then, unceremoniously, the two practically bolted.

I watched them vanish into the front of the building, eyebrow raised suspiciously, then shook my head. "It is _not_ the time," I muttered to myself, and went on into the kitchen.

I ran through theories as I stood at the counter, waiting for the coffee to brew. _Some sort of coup?_ Though the Joker was widely considered to be too terrifying to betray, the guys we hired weren't known for being big thinkers, and the Edward Nigma fiasco of the previous month might have made them bold. Still… although the association with Deni was worrisome, _Ty? Stacks?_ I couldn't see either of them turning on us—especially since at the moment, there was no other big operation to turn _to_ except the crippled, infighting-riddled Italian mob.

I couldn't see them plotting to just pick up and leave, either. Among Gotham's underworld, there was a certain amount of prestige that came with working for the Joker, and I knew the two of them enjoyed it. I couldn't see them just… going straight, out of the blue.

Maybe it was drugs—I didn't ban the use of them in general, just in the hideout, but from the reaction I got you'd think I ordered all the guys to adopt a straight-edge lifestyle, no exceptions. Or maybe they were running some private deal of their own and trying to keep it quiet—smart, given that one could never predict when the Joker would shrug off freelance work or when he'd take it as infringing on his territory, but if that was it, I wish they'd just tell _me_ so I could quit worrying about them.

The coffee machine finished brewing and beeped, drawing my attention back to it. I tried to shake off my suspicions and focus instead on pouring coffee for me and the Joker, but the worry hovered in the back of my mind, sticking with me as I returned to his bedroom-office.

I'll admit to glancing over his shoulder as I set his mug on the desk, curious as always about what he was working on, but as usual, the exact purpose of the blueprints and train schedules and defaced newspaper articles eluded me. I gave up, returned to the bed with my own cup of coffee, and as I drew my legs up beneath me I said, "The henchmen are getting kind of squirrely. I think we should have a chokey put into the hideout so we'll have somewhere to put them until they cool down."

I hadn't really been expecting a response, talking mostly for my own amusement, but he turned his head slightly, not-quite looking at me over his shoulder, and said, "Ah. … _chokey?_ "

"Yeah," I said, "you know, from _Matilda?_ " I got nothing but more silence and stillness, which I interpreted as a demand for clarification. "Right," I muttered, "of course you don't know _Matilda,_ you're a STEM guy if I ever met one—the chokey was like… a torture closet the principal of the school had, really small, studded with glass and nails so you couldn't move or sit down when she put you in it without getting gouged. She'd stick kids who were misbehaving in there and leave 'em."

"Sounds like an innovator," he commented idly, and I snorted in agreement, reaching for my coffee.

The next couple of hours passed peacefully, or close to it, anyway. The Joker stayed at his desk, working, and I sat cross-legged on the bed behind him, sipping coffee and reading magazines and trying to stay awake. The Joker was being temperate for the time being, but even before going to see Anfisa, we'd made an agreement, mostly-unspoken, that if he stayed off the bad leg and let it heal, then I would be his hands and feet while he needed me to. I had little doubt that if I took a much-needed nap, then he'd read it as a violation of my side of the agreement and would be running around exacerbating his injury in no time. I wasn't about to let that happen, so I drank entirely too much coffee and stayed attentive.

It went all right, to begin with. The Joker, ever industrious, had a million things he wanted done, so it seemed like every time I was about to nod off, he'd bark an order—go send x group of henchmen for recon here, more coffee, go wake what's-his-face and ask him if he did that thing, _food now,_ hike down to the basement and see if that big Russian guy had set up the lights like he was supposed to, _do-you-see-that-big-black-shadow-on-the-wall-or-is-it-only-me-no-just-kidding,_ etc., rinse, repeat.

I followed through, increasingly zombie-like, until well into the afternoon. I may have actually slipped into some kind of micro-sleep, because suddenly I was aware that something had called my attention, but couldn't quite recall what that _something_ was.

The Joker had laced his hands together behind his back, behind his chair, and was stretching his shoulders with a groan. His joints cracked and popped, then he relaxed, swiveled to look at me, then said accusingly, " _This_ isn't working."

I was still in zombie mode, and the statement made no sense to me. Rubbing the heel of my hand into one dry eye, I asked, " _What_ isn't working?"

He rolled the tip of his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip in lieu of answering, and then reached out for the hockey stick and was on his feet and halfway out of the room before I even processed what was happening.

"Whoa," I said, faintly alarmed, launching myself off the bed. "Hey, J—what's up?"

He ignored me, of course, and I rolled my eyes, following him out into the big rec space. It was late afternoon by then, and the henchmen had begun to stir. They were playing poker, trying to scrape some food together, watching TV, and generally going about their everyday business, and I watched them tense up at the Joker's presence, all pretending that it didn't frighten them, all sneaking furtive glances at him out of the corners of their eyes, trying to keep track of him, to get a bead on his mood and what his presence meant. He had a habit of keeping to himself when we were at headquarters, rarely interacting with the men unless it had to do with work, so they knew the sight of his face meant they needed to pay close attention. Just not _too_ close. No good painting a target on one's back.

That day, he was a man on a mission, and stumped directly over to the little den the boys had shaped around the TV, the ripped and tattered curbside couches and armchairs a direct contrast to the gleaming big-screen plasma that had fallen off the back of a truck somewhere. He paused, cast a quick, baleful eye over the guys huddled round—all of whom had tensed up wisely at his approach—and said, impatiently, "Gimme the remote."

There were a few anxiously-exchanged glances, then Harris spoke up. "It's missing, boss."

The look of disappointed disgust he shot them was so withering I was surprised any of the guys had eyebrows by the time he glanced back at the TV. He didn't bother ordering them to look for it (selective blindness took on a whole new dimension when it came to our boys) and just turned back to the screen. After a second of staring at what was playing—it looked like _Fargo_ to me, Steve Buscemi in a turtleneck and at his most off-putting—he lifted his crutch and stabbed at the television.

Ostensibly, he was trying to change the channel, but his aim was off, and he hit the screen, then again, and again. I knew him, I knew his aim would never be that bad if he really cared, I knew it would be actively easier to move close to the TV and change the channel manually, and so I guessed he was just doing it to get a rise out of the henchmen, if not to punish them for misplacing the remote to begin with, and I waited in silence to see who'd snap first.

To no one's surprise, it was Harris. His feet came off of the cinderblock he was using as an ottoman, he sat up straight, and loudly, he said, "Whoa, whoa—what the hell you doing?!"

The Joker didn't even spare him a glance. "Turning on the news," he muttered under his breath as the butt of the stick actually landed successfully on the button and the channel changed—to a Britney Spears music video. He swore and stabbed at the TV again, hitting the screen and leaving a couple of bursts of light where the stick struck.

Harris bounded to his feet. "You're busting the pixels!" he exclaimed, voice shrill with alarm. It was true—the TV already had a couple of tiny permanently blue spots where it had been hit with airsoft bullets during a tournament arranged by Ty and Stacks the previous week (I was of the opinion that they got shot at _enough_ with _real bullets,_ but that was our boys for you—thrillseekers, all of them), and now there was a splotch of more of them where the Joker had just struck the screen.

The Joker stopped abruptly and gave him a _look_ , the kind of look that always warned me to cut and run _immediately_ on the off-chance that the head start would keep him from catching up to me in just a few long-legged strides. Harris, as a henchman, didn't really have the luxury of running—the Joker wouldn't think twice about spraying a handful of bullets into his back, whereas with me I think half the joy was the chase—but he clearly recognized that he'd misstepped and went about trying to fix it.

"I'm just sayin', boss—why don't you have a seat here and let me change the channel _for_ you? Be easier that way."

The Joker's shoulders tensed, his chest puffed out, and I slapped a hand over my mouth to smother a giggle before it could form. I'd seen that body language before in henchmen, Harris among them, when they were on the verge of a physical fight: arms bowed up, jaw jutting, their last-ditch effort to ruffle up their feathers and intimidate the other guy into backing off. The imitation wasn't good news for Harris—the Joker got a lot more openly mocking right before he was about to dole out some pain, I'd found—but it _was_ extremely funny.

"What're you saying, huh?" he asked, his tone faintly pugnacious. "You think I can't work a TV myself? You think I need your _help_?"

Harris, realizing that he was in trouble, sank down onto the couch cushions, dropping his voice to a mutter. "No, boss."

The Joker cupped his hand around his ear. "What's that?"

" _No_ , _boss_ ," Harris repeated, louder. "Just offering."

The Joker slowly lowered the hockey stick, setting the base delicately on the ground, his eyes fixed on Harris the whole time. He tilted his head, looking too perfectly ingenuous to be believed, and I could practically see the gears turning in his head as he ran through potential reactions, method after morbid method of making Harris an _example_ as punishment for the presumed offense.

Then, his expression shuttered. His eyes rolled from one end of the room to the other as he took stock of the group, the crowd of henchmen hanging breathless off his movements, waiting to see what was going to happen, and he sucked his teeth: a sign of boredom and contempt, normally a _bad_ sign for anyone around, but in this case, the boredom appeared to be directed towards the entire little encounter with Harris. Without another look at our supposed medic, he fitted his crutch beneath his arm and loped moodily out of the room.

I lingered for a bit, drifting close to tense the cluster of guys around the TV and shooting them a glare. " _Where_ is the remote?"

"Nobody knows," whined Rod, another kid a few years younger than I was, potentially too soft for this job. "Ace had it last."

I closed my eyes and muttered "Fuckin' Ace" under my breath, because of _course_ he'd be the key to this little mystery, and then, stretching out my index finger, I swept it across the little group pointedly. " _Find. It."_

"Harley, we already _tried_ —" began Harris, but I'd had enough, and wheeled around to follow the Joker back to the bedroom to see what he was up to now. He might be _acting_ bored, but it wasn't like him to just drop a promising and entertaining altercation, especially when he was starting to get a touch of cabin fever and could use the diversion. He had something else cooking, I was fairly sure of it.

A suspicion that was confirmed as soon as I stepped into the room. Somewhat to my surprise, he was back on the bed, sitting upright with his back against the wall and his legs stretched out, absently spinning the cylinder of the revolver he held in his hand. When I appeared, he looked sideways at me, snapped the cylinder closed, flipped the revolver so he was holding it by the barrel, handle pointed towards me, and he ordered, "Shoot Harris."

My eyes went wide at that one even as I reached out to take the gun. "Seriously? You're letting _me_ do that?"

"My generosity knows _no_ bounds," he claimed, pulling back and lacing his hands lazily behind his head, shooting me a self-satisfied grin. I narrowed my eyes at him, sparing a quick glance downward as I checked the cylinder to make sure the gun was actually loaded and he wasn't stirring up shit (it was, but he possibly still was, as well). He looked tired, which was par for the course, but the fact that he was also off his feet was telling—I figured he just didn't want to hobble back and forth again to dole out justice. I didn't blame him. The first day after a sprain was rough; in the past, I'd shed tears if I'd put too much weight on a sprained ankle too soon.

"Any preference as to _where_?" I asked, starting to feel the electric excitement warming my chest. _I've got permission to shoot Harris!_ In all honesty, it was something I'd wanted to do since the aforementioned incident with the unclean needle.

The Joker inhaled deep and long through his nose, drumming his fingertips on his leg, and then, as he exhaled, said, "Surprise me." I winked at him and turned away, only to turn right back impatiently as he ordered, "Harley, wait." He rolled his eyes up into the left corner of their sockets, ostensibly in deep thought, though I suspected he was just enjoying making me wait, then he said, "Hit him in the _foot._ "

"You got it," I said, then bolted before he could call me back again. He cackled distantly behind me.

I stalked out into the common area again, veins abuzz, looking for my target. He'd settled back down in front of the TV, making no effort to locate the remote, which made my resolve even stronger. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a few guys getting quickly to their feet as I stalked past, recognizing danger when they saw it, but Harris's back was to me, so he was shit out of luck.

I put the gun behind my back as I rounded the couch. Rod must have seen the look in my eye, because he slipped away from the couch immediately, but Harris had a long and proud history of being a dumbass, and he just smirked at me, believing himself out of danger now that the boss was out of sight. "What," he asked, "come to nag a little more?"

Some well-meaning soul behind me who could actually see the gun hissed "Harris, _shut up_."

Presumably because the word of warning came from someone he actually cared to listen to, Harris started to catch on to the fact that something was up. The smirk started to fade, slowly, and he said, "What's up?"

I frowned. Most of our guys were sprawlers, feet on the ground, knees splayed wide, but Harris, already compact, was apparently the type to sit with his feet folded under him. That was a problem. "Where are your feet?" I asked irritably.

"What are you hiding behind your back?" he demanded.

"Stand up," I ordered.

If anything, he shrank down further into the couch, some little rodent instinct telling him that moving would be the worst thing he could possibly do. I rolled my eyes, letting out a huff of impatience, then said, "Fine" and brought the gun up, trailing it on him.

"Jesus!" he yelped, bolting upright as that instinct abandoned him and climbing backwards over the back of the couch with what was frankly an impressive amount of grace, given the fact that he didn't take his eyes off the gun the whole time. He stopped once he'd put the couch between us and held out his hands, transformed into a supplicant by the sight of the deadly weapon. _Too late._

"L-listen, Harley," he said, stealing furtive, half-second glances at the other guys, looking for help. I checked out of the corners of my eyes to see if there was anything I needed to worry about, but, wisely, most of the henchmen had disappeared from the room—experience told them that if bullets were about to fly, it would be wisest to put some distance between themselves and the guns, whether they were the intended target or not. The ones who hadn't fled were staying put, unwilling to stick their necks out for someone who wasn't all that popular to begin with.

I cut him off. "Harris, come around the couch."

"What are you, crazy? No!"

"I'm not gonna hurt you bad," I said, exasperated.

"Oh, well in that case—" he began sarcastically.

"If I was going to kill you, I'd shoot right now; your whole trunk is in my sights," I pointed out, training the gun on his heart to prove my point. He responded by dropping out of sight. "Fuck," I mouthed, and leaped over the couch in pursuit.

Fortunately, he was trying to crawl away, so when I landed on the other side, I had a clear view of his feet. I steadied myself, took aim, said, "I'll try not to shoot you in the ass," and fired.

Unfortunately, at the sound of my voice, he tried to jump upright to make a run for it, and my shot went wide. " _Shit_ ," we said at the same time, though Harris's was decidedly more of a yelp.

"Harris," I snapped, "stop _right_ now or I _will_ shoot you in the ass." I fired another shot in warning, and he yelped again, ducking instinctively. By the time he straightened up, the reality of his situation seemed to have set in—he was far from any exit, and no one was coming to help. Shaking, he put his hands up and slowly turned.

"Harley, come on," he pleaded. "Take it easy. I didn't—I didn't mean anything by—"

"Don't be a big baby," I chastised him. "Take your punishment like a man." Before he could answer, to try to make any further effort to defend himself, I fired.

A little blood spray erupted from his right shoe, and almost simultaneously, he crumpled, making an extremely satisfying sound. I felt the thrill of it rush through me, the buzzing in my ears made louder by the knowledge that the guy'd had it coming for weeks now, and I basked for just a second before barking, "Aleksis!"

I got no response, other than Harris's whimpers as he reached down to grasp his injured foot. I glanced around, spotted Rod half-hiding behind an armchair, and demanded, "Is Aleksis here?"

"Um… um, I think he was sleeping?"

"I am here." I turned to see the man in question standing in the doorway, looking a little drowsy but otherwise entirely unaffected by the scene before him.

I pointed at Harris. "Take him to your grandmother, please. Get her to patch him up." As he nodded and went silently to pick Harris up off the floor, I added pointedly, "Tell him to pay attention; he might learn a thing or two about giving proper medical care."

Harris muttered under his breath as Aleksis basically dragged him out of the room, but he wasn't so foolish as to risk another bullet wound by speaking loud enough that I could make out what he was saying. I turned as they left, scanning the room for any signs of rebellion, anything out of place.

I spotted something: Ty, Stacks, and Deni, huddled in a corner and looking at me in a way that suggested they would _really_ prefer if I didn't notice them. Once my eyes landed on them, Stacks swore, and Ty looked like he was preparing to bolt, but the blood was still rushing in my veins, the sleep deprivation numbing any standard inhibitions.

"YOU THREE," I bellowed, and I liked to think it was the stern, decidedly maternal note in my voice that made them freeze obediently in place, rather than the fact that I held a loaded gun. "CRISS-CROSS APPLESAUCE, ON THE FLOOR. NOW!"

I didn't know who I was channeling, probably some particularly stern kindergarten teacher from another life, but it worked. The three dropped to the floor before they quite knew what they were doing, going by the slightly baffled expressions they wore, and I didn't give them a chance to escape. I paced across the room towards them, sparing a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure Harris was already out and I didn't need to worry about an attack from behind. Once reassured, I returned my attention to the three suspects, sitting on the floor in front of me and looking up at me guilty as sin, and I felt my gaze sharpen into a glare.

I eyed them for a second, trying to decide the best way to go about extracting whatever secret they were keeping. I didn't think asking outright would work—maybe if I had one of them separate, maybe Stacks (I felt awkward around Deni, and Ty was extremely hard to pin down), but as it was, they were together, unified, less likely to talk under pressure from the others.

Then again, I _did_ have a gun.

I opened my mouth, determined to figure out what was going on, but was cut off before I even began by a bellow from the back of the building: "HAR- _LEY_!"

 _Oh, not now._ "WHAT," I screamed back, less a real question and more a pointed _fuck-off_.

"I NEED YOU!"

"Well, that makes for a change," I muttered rebelliously under my breath, but bad timing or not, I felt the familiar thrill I always felt at the thought that the Joker wanted me near. _As for the boys…_

I pointed at each of them in turn and, speaking softly and enunciating every syllable, I said, "You three do not move a muscle until I come back, or I'll beat you with a rubber hose."

I didn't wait for them to agree. There was a weird, nervous energy buzzing just under my skin, prompted by violence, the anticipation for a fight, and right now it had nowhere to go. I spun on my heel and stalked back to the bedroom.

I was in no mood for another menial errand, and I think it showed in my face, because of course, as soon as I thundered into the room, I spotted the Joker sitting right where I left him, blinking big guileless eyes at me, as though he couldn't imagine what could _possibly_ have me in a huff. I put my hands on my hips and raised my eyebrows impatiently, and he answered the unspoken question— _well?_ —by simply patting the empty space on the bed next to him.

 _Ah, shit._ He knew damn well no matter what I was in the middle of, I wasn't going to pass up an opportunity to get a little closer to him, so with bad grace, I accepted the invitation, climbing onto the bed and sitting beside him, back against the wall, shoulder pressed alongside his, and legs stretched out, same as him. I looked at our bare feet, his long and pale and thin, mine short and square and nowhere near as far away as his—they ended about halfway down the length of his calf.

 _Feet. Ankle. Right._ I started to speak, to ask how the sprain was doing, but he spoke first: "Takin' care of business, babydoll?"

His tone was aimless and innocent and immediately put me on my guard. _Shit, what did I do?_ I thought, sneaking a quick glance at him out of the corner of my eye—his head was angled towards me, eyes calm and sleepy, which just made the warning bells in my mind ring louder. Something was definitely up. _Shit,_ I thought. _I fired three gunshots, maybe he's angry I didn't get it in one? Then I was yelling at Aleksis and the other guys right afterwards… he can't be mad at me for bossing them around, can he?_ I never could tell with him. Sometimes he was more than happy to have me bully his employees, especially if it meant _he_ didn't have to deal with them, but he could get possessive of his things at the weirdest time.

I thought then that perhaps it hadn't been the best move to sit so close to him, and I started to edge away, but before I could do more than tense up, his hand closed tight over my wrist. Trapped. _Shit._ Unable to play it cool any longer, I turned my head to look directly at him. He licked his lips—hiding a smirk, I think—and then mirrored my motion, meeting my eyes expectantly and lifting his eyebrows in challenge.

Telling the truth was usually the default course of action—even if the truth made him angry, it was nothing compared how he reacted when he caught me in a lie—and I didn't see any other option at the time. "I, uh," I began softly, "… a few of them have been acting out, so since I was dealing with Harris anyway…"

He nodded thoughtfully. "You thought you'd dole out some… _discipline_ ," he prompted.

I felt certain that saying more would dig me into a deeper hole, so I opted for a simple nod instead, going for "confident" and probably ending up somewhere around "tense." He nodded back solemnly, looking rather like he expected some further explanation, but when it became clear that none was forthcoming, he just asked: "Harris taken care of?"

I perked up a little, feeling like he was leading me back towards solid ground. "Per your order."

"Shot in the foot?"

"Direct hit. Blood everywhere." He made a noise low in his throat, a near-growl that I thought signaled satisfaction, and so I felt a little safer sidling closer and speaking up again: "And for the record, sure, the guys are scared stiff of you, but I still don't think it's really wise to turn our backs on the ones we've—"

He exhaled impatiently through his nose, and without bothering to wait for me to finish my sentence, he tightened his grip on my wrist and placed my hand in his lap, making it supremely evident that _satisfaction_ was right on the money. I squeaked in surprise, but before I could do much more, he seized me by the shoulder and pulled me over on top of him.

"Well, damn," I said through a sudden burst of laughter as he steadied me, "I didn't realize _that_ counted as dirty talk."

" _Well,_ " he said deliberately, sliding a hand up through the hair on the back of my head and then tightening his fist, causing my breath to catch and making me see white for just a second, "you never _were_ the brightest."

Unexpectedly, the dig stung. Still feeling the buzz of adrenaline from the encounter with Harris, and still operating through a haze of sleep deprivation that made me less adept at controlling my impulses, I drew back and slapped him. Hard.

I should have been mortified, should have immediately started working on damage control. It was far from the first time I'd hit him. It wasn't even the first time I'd hit him during or leading up to sex—hell, he was as much of a masochist as I was; he _liked_ being hit. The difference was _that_ was playful, or close enough that I could get away with it, but _this_ was outright defiance, direct retaliation for the insult. He never put up well with defiance _._

I needed to apologize. He had one hand tight on my arm holding me firmly in place, the other still wrapped up in my hair, and it'd be _so easy_ for him to just jerk me forwards, crack my head open on the plaster and render me weak as a new kitten, ripe for the drowning. Even though I was fully aware of this, I couldn't make myself say the words. Instead, spurred on in part by the new sting in my palm that matched my wounded feelings and in part by evidence of his continued arousal right there between my legs, I upped the ante with a challenge: "You wanna say that again?"

His head had snapped to the side with the force of the strike, and he took his time turning it to face front again. There was a tiny bubble of red at the corner of his mouth, but he didn't bother to swipe it away, too busy looking at me with eyes narrowed in humor or anger or both. "Well, my, my," he sang throatily, slipping his hand out of my hair and running his knuckles down my back. "Look who decided to grow a _spine._ "

I narrowed my eyes, far from amused. _A year together and he's still spewing this bullshit?_ I was _not_ in an indulgent mood, so I shifted, moving to climb off him. Predictably, he wasn't having it—his hand flattened on my back; "A-ta-ta-ta-ta," he warned me as he slid down from the wall onto his back, using a combination of gravity and force to pull me down with him.

I caught myself on hands braced on either side of his head, unwilling to just give up and give in. "Oh, no, no," I said, brushing the tip of his nose rather aggressively with mine, "I can't think of any use you might have for a _spineless, dumb bimbo_ —"

" _Really?_ " he purred, eyes lighting with delight as he slid his hand beneath my shirt and ran his finger up my vertebrae. " _I_ can think of a few."

I scoffed, disgusted, half at him and half at myself for giving him that obvious opening, and thought for a second about biting him in retaliation, but he was clearly in the sort of mood where it would do nothing but encourage him. Instead, my tone as cutting as I could make it, I said, "Well, maybe _I_ don't want to waste my time with an _asshole._ "

"Harley," he said in his _let's-be-reasonable-now_ tone, which I _hated,_ "wasting your time with assholes is practically your _job description_ these days."

 _Fuck. He's got a point, but don't laugh._ If I laughed, I lost, and I was still feeling contrary and disgruntled. I slid down to rest on my elbow on one side, a move that put me nice and flush against him, and with a smile sweet enough to give him tooth decay, I said, "If you were trying to get a rise out of me, congratulations, you did it. Now would you let me go?"

He drew in a hissing breath through his teeth and rolled his eyes up thoughtfully. After giving the request a moment's consideration, he settled his stare back on me and said, "…nnnno."

He must have seen me tense up in preparation to pull away and bolt, because in the next instant he flipped me over, startling a squeak out of me as he settled himself comfortably between my legs. Leering down at me, he added, "Now, _why_ would I go through all this effort just to let you _go?_ "

It dawned on me then that he was having the time of his life, prodding and poking at me after a whole day spent lamed and bored out of his mind. I wanted to stay angry and sullen, to throw him off and bolt, but it was getting harder to maintain my resolve with the pleasant weight of him bearing me down, his hand slipping away from my back to jerk impatiently at the button on my shorts and drag them down my thighs.

I hooked an arm around the back of his neck and pulled his face down while he was otherwise occupied, brushing my lips over the bright spot at the corner of his mouth before kissing him fully and aggressively. As usual, the taste of blood seemed to spur him on, and I just had time to wonder whether I'd let go of my anger at him or if I was still mad but ignoring it so we could both get what we wanted before he pushed into me, and I dragged him closer, realizing that it didn't matter either way.

* * *

The sudden, subconscious realization that I was alone and that I had no idea how much time had passed jerked me awake some time later.

We blacked out or boarded up the windows of the buildings we stayed in if they weren't already somehow obscured, so I had to scramble for a clock, only to discover to my dismay that it was after six PM. "Shit," I spat, and jumped out of bed, hastily throwing on some clothes before bolting out into the main room to see what inevitable horrible thing had happened while I was asleep.

It was worse than I thought. The main room was totally empty.

 _Well, not totally,_ I realized as I gave the room a second once-over after my original panicked scan. Ty, Stacks, and Deni were still sitting cross-legged on the floor where I'd left them over an hour ago. I went over to them, feeling equal parts guilty and baffled. "You guys are still here?"

"Yeah, like you told us," Stacks answered, obviously on the hunt for brownie points, while Ty simultaneously replied "Like _hell_ I was going down there with _them._ " Deni, as was his custom, stayed silent.

"Wait—wait, down where? With who? Where's the Joker?"

"Down _there_ ," Ty repeated impatiently, pointing at the floor. "With Spider an'nem."

I looked from face to face, uncomprehending. "They're all in the basement? What are they doing down there?"

"Uh, we don't know," Stacks said, "and I don't think we really wanted to find out."

"Right," I muttered, more concerned than ever, and turned away to find the stairs.

"Does this mean we can go?" Stacks called after me.

 _Oh, right._ I turned on my heel and approached them again, placing my hands on my hips and staring each of them down in turn as I spoke: "Yeah, you can go—as soon as you explain to me why you three have been slinking around all day, looking guilty as sin and running off whenever I come into the room."

If I needed any further evidence that there was something going on between the three of them, I would have found it in the quick, guilty look they exchanged then. None of them seemed keen to meet my eye or offer an explanation, and as we started pushing a full thirty seconds of awkward throat-clearing, I gave them a little push: "The rubber hose is still on the table, guys."

Stacks broke first. "We weren't doing anything bad, Harl, I swear."

"Dude, shut _up,_ " said Ty.

"We were just looking for the playbook!"

"Great," said Deni, breaking his silence as Ty sighed in exasperation, "now we'll never get it back."

I looked from face to face to face. When it became evident that they apparently thought they'd given me all the information I needed and so no more was forthcoming, I demanded, "What _playbook?_ "

"The D&D Playbook," Ty said, shoulders slumping and tone flat in resignation. "The boss took it from us a couple'a days ago."

"You guys… just want to play D&D," I said, testing the conclusion. It sounded as insane as I thought it would, but after surveying the assembled faces one more time, I realized they were in almost distressing earnest. I shook my head, trying to shake off the weirdness, and added, "And the Joker took your… handbook."

" _Playbook,_ " Deni and Stacks corrected me in unison.

"Why don't you just go out and get another one? They can't be hard to find."

"Yeah, but this was an original," Stacks protested. "Nineteen seventy-four, mint condition. It belonged to my uncle." He looked at me with eyes that were suddenly wide and boyish. "You think you could get it back for us?"

Deni and Ty immediately started looking imploringly at me as well, and I stared back at them, unsure whether I should laugh or go find the promised rubber hose. _Dungeons and Dragons,_ I thought. _Who'd've guessed that our henchmen are a bunch of fucking nerds?_

"I guess it's better than Grand Theft Auto," I allowed begrudgingly.

Deni, with surprising heat, protested: "Grand Theft Auto is a masterpiece."

I scowled at him. "The storyline, sure, but you guys are too busy cussing out twelve-year-olds over GTA online to bother with that, aren't you?"

"Harley," Ty interjected, "the playbook?"

"I'm not making any promises."

" _Yes,_ " said Stacks as Deni and Ty, clearly thinking they were being subtle about it, fist-bumped; "yes!"

"I said no promises!" I repeated severely. "And _next time,_ come to me right away instead of making me think you're plotting to kill us all in our sleep, okay?"

This was met with a chorus of eager agreement; the three of them clearly were willing to say whatever they thought would get their playbook back. I rolled my eyes and turned away. "Stay out of trouble," I threw over my shoulder. "I need to figure out what's happening downstairs."

I had a pretty good idea of what I would find as soon as I opened the door to the basement and heard a dull roar of shouting men, accompanied by the thud of flesh colliding with flesh, but I still managed to be a bit shocked when I reached the bottom of the stairs and spotted two guys beating the bejesus out of each other, under lights, in the center of a ring formed by more henchmen.

It didn't take me long to locate the Joker, a lone, lanky figure off to the side, on his feet but still leaning on the impromptu crutch, watching the proceedings in absolute stillness. The sound of my movements covered by the small din, I slipped over to his side, where I stood watching the boys in the ring—Rod and Spider—whale on each other. After a moment of this, I said, "If you wanted to sneak away and start a fight club, you could have just duct-taped me to the bed."

For a moment, he said nothing, and I was just beginning to think he was going to just pretend he hadn't heard me when he said, "I have… uh, _no_ idea what you're talking about."

I snorted, then winced as Spider landed a particularly wet-sounding blow on Rod's face. "And you don't think having our boys beat each other out of commission might be damaging to our operation if we run into, say, bat trouble tonight?"

He glanced at me a few times out of the corner of his eye, then when it became apparent that I wasn't going anywhere, he flashed me a dingy grin that got nowhere near his eyes and said, quickfire, "Well, the _remote's_ missing, Harley—I gotta find some way to entertain myself."

"And you're doing that by forcing our guys to fight in front of you."

He pulled a face and made a dismissive gesture—"Yeah, yeah, yeah, less of the _judging_ —" and before I could argue, Spider was calling out from the ring.

"He's out, boss!" he said, pointing to Rod, who was lying prone, being dragged none-too-gently out of the circle by a pair of others.

"Oh, _well done,_ " the Joker called back, the warmth in his voice sounding almost genuine. "Now fight the big one. The uh—the rusky. Whatshisname."

"Aleksis?" piped up a voice from the group. "He's gone. Had to take Harris to the doctor."

 _Okay, that's it,_ I thought. The Joker had clearly all but forgotten my presence, already on the move to figure out who Spider would face next. I slipped away, heading back upstairs. _Time to get this house back in order._

Back upstairs, I was met with the eager faces of the D&D trio, but before they could ask, I said, "Not now," and stalked past them on the way to the bedroom.

I didn't need to dress up for what I had in mind, so instead, I donned the ubiquitous "Gotham street person" uniform—black hoodie, zipped, hood up, black pants, black fingerless gloves, rendering me formless and beneath notice, exactly what I wanted to be. Once I was suited up, I went to find supplies.

It was a given that in any hideout he made his home for any amount of time, the Joker would have a closet full of weaponry set apart from the main arsenal. There were a number of unstable substances scattered around, but if you knew what you were looking for, it was some primo stuff, and I knew _exactly_ what I wanted: a few burner phones, a handful of sticky bombs and a big, heavy case.

While I was rummaging around putting this together, I spotted a paperback book on a shelf nearby. Before tonight, I wouldn't have even noticed it, but now that I was keeping an eye out for it, it jumped out at me—an ivory-colored cover, bearing a simple illustration of magicians gathered in a circle. The bombs had gone into a messenger bag slung over my shoulder, the phones were in my pockets, I held the case in one hand, and I rolled my eyes, muttering "Nerds" even as I reached out with my one free hand and snatched the book up.

On my way back out, I pushed the book into Stacks' chest. "Don't bring family heirlooms here and expect them to make it out safe," I scolded, "and don't let him catch you playing that again!"

Book delivered, I headed towards the exit. "Hey," Ty called after me, "where are you going?"

"To do a job!" I yelled back, and stepped out into the blackness of the Gotham night.

* * *

"Yeah, hi, I need to place a pick-up order," I said into the phone cradled between my shoulder and my cheek as I set up my little crow's nest overlooking Olsen Street downtown. "Eight large pepperoni pizzas and two large cheese pizzas, please. Yeah, that'll be cash. An hour? Actually perfect. Yeah, of course—the pickup name is Ace. 'Kay, bye."

I hung up the phone, slipped it into the pocket of my hoodie, shot a quick, anxious look to the street below to make sure the convoy wasn't coming early, and returned to work, opening the heavy case I'd brought to reveal the gleaming parts of the gun inside.

My own brushes with the law combined with dozens of stories from the guys had beaten into me a certain familiarity with the legal process in Gotham, and so I knew that freshly arrested criminals—especially muscle associated with various bosses around the city—stayed at the jail for about one full night getting processed and waiting for their first hearing, then usually were kept for one full day until all the hearings were done with, then all who had failed to post bail were transferred to Blackgate to await a proper trial. That meant our arrested boys were being moved tonight.

I owed the Joker for a lot of things, and not least among them was the valuable knowledge that getting one's way in Gotham City was a simple matter of pressure points. Everyone had them, and in a city as leaky and corrupt as this one, most of the people who could get shit done had quite a few. Bailiff William Jefferson didn't have _many_ weak spots, but the one he had was a _doozy,_ so I put in a call to him, dialing the number written in ink on the inside of my wrist.

He'd been really whiny, trying to put me off from the start: "I don't know, Harley," he said in those low, furious tones that told me he was probably huddled in the stall of a bathroom or the corner of a courtyard somewhere, trying desperately to avoid eavesdroppers. "They're not on my docket."

"Ah, shit, what a shame," I sighed, taking another look at the cheat sheet scratched on my wrist. "Cause the only way Laura isn't going to find out about Carrie is if I get the info I want. Or wait—is _Carrie_ the wife and _Laura_ the mistress?" I pondered this for a split second, then shrugged. "Doesn't matter, I can sort it out. But _you_ won't be able to once I've dropped those incriminating photos in Laura-or-Carrie's work mailbox, so I suggest you _find me what I need_."

There was a pause filled with white noise, then, sullenly, he said, "Let me call you back."

After half an hour of driving absently around, I received his return call, and he reported that the boys were scheduled to be moved in an hour, along with some various and sundry offenders. He gave me the route they were planning to take, and I groaned approvingly as I wrote the street names down lower on my arm. "Amazing what you can pull out of your ass when adultery's on the line, isn't it, Bill? Thanks a million; give Laura-or-Carrie my best." I turned off the phone before I could hear much of the spitting and swearing that followed it, and, whistling, dropped it out the window.

That information put me on a rusty little fire escape about ten feet above street level, assembling a lightweight long-range rifle (I had been informed by the Joker, loftily, that it was _not_ a sniper rifle; I still felt like if the shoe fit and you could take out a fly at a hundred yards, it counted) and keeping an eye on Olsen Street, where the police vans were set to turn the corner any minute.

The job was a risky one. If it hadn't been so spur-of-the-moment, half-planned in the back of my head from some indefinable point earlier that day, I'd have backup and some more sophisticated equipment, but as it was, I was just going to have to wing it. There was a possibility that one or more of our guys would get killed, but I doubted it. The charges weren't so powerful that they'd tear the vans apart.

I hoped.

It wasn't a busy part of town, but I still huddled low as I assembled the gun—didn't want some well-meaning tourist unaccustomed to Gotham's ways tipping off the cops. I got everything in order just in time: as I was settling the assembled gun on its bipod, I saw the police vans rounding the corner ahead.

It was just two vans, no additional escort. I'd planned for more firepower, but hadn't necessarily expected it. Prison transfers happened literally every day in Gotham, and there was simply not the manpower to set a squad car on every such proceeding. Big bosses had better things to do than risk themselves or more men busting their grunts out during a jail transfer.

_Like torturing their remaining numbers, for instance._

I gritted my teeth and sighted my target—one of two little red blinkers, both fastened to the concrete guard marking the median of the road. I had a few backups planted periodically down the street in case I missed my first shot or something went wrong. I hoped I wouldn't need them. (Again—if I'd had more time, I'd have just programmed a simple detonator, but that was more the Joker's area of expertise anyway, and this whole thing was happening on the fly.)

I settled the crosshairs over the light and waited.

The first van cruised past. I waited until I could see the gap between the rear bumper of the first and the front bumper of the second, then, not thinking, not hesitating, I squeezed the trigger.

The subsequent explosion punched a hole in the median and the asphalt nearby, the shot bomb detonating the second charge as it went off. The bombs might not have been strong enough to blast the cars apart, but they definitely sent them spinning, shrapnel taking out a few tires in the process.

I was beside myself. I'd had plenty of target practice since joining the Joker, but I'd never made a shot like _that,_ not on the first try. I hopped away from the gun, balled my fists, and bounced off the balls of my feet, squealing "Yes, yes, yes!" until the fire escape groaned and shifted alarmingly, reminding me that I had a job to finish.

I left the gun where it was—J probably wouldn't like it, but there was no time to break it down, and if he'd wanted to keep it, he should have come up with his _own_ plan. I shimmied fast down the ladder, landed at street level, and sprinted over to the smoking wreckage.

Someone was kicking his way out of the back of the police van as I approached. I stropped, drawing the little pearl-handled pistol J had picked up for me a few weeks ago during a raid on a GPD evidence locker and holding it steady. A huge guy I didn't recognize stumbled out, and I trained the gun on his chest—he froze when he spotted me. Behind him, I could make out motion, bodies moving in the van.

I met his wary eyes. "The Joker's guys in there?"

"Harley?"

That was a voice I recognized. Keeping my gun on the unknown escapee, I bellowed past him: "Ace, you son of a bitch, where's the _remote_?"

After some clattering sounds, Ace emerged from the van, followed by a few more faces I recognized. He squinted, blinking hard to get the blood from a fresh gash in his forehead out of his eyes. " _What?_ "

"None of us could find the remote, so the Joker started a fight club. You need to come back with me _stat_ and produce that remote before our entire workforce is laid up recovering from beatings."

The big stranger bolted suddenly, nearly startling me into pulling the trigger; instead, I checked the gun and yelled out "You're welcome!" as a few other strangers followed suit. I turned back to Ace and added, "That goes for you too, by the way."

"What, you're asking for a thank-you? You coulda killed us!"

I scoffed in disbelief. _Of all the ungrateful_ —"Well, _yeah,_ " I said at length, "but I _didn't!_ "

He shook his head and gestured at me with shackled hands. "We won't know that for sure till you get in the back of that other van; Doherty and Mex are in there. Get some keys for these fuckin' handcuffs."

"Keep being rude and you'll stay trussed up for the rest of the night," I said even as I headed over to the front of the other van.

The passenger cop was out cold, but the driver was stirring, trying to pull his leg out from where it was pinioned between the caved-in dash and the gearshift. When I wrenched the door open, he went for his gun, but I was ready, smashing the butt of my pistol into his temple, and he crumpled. As I searched him for keys, I glanced back through the barred panel and called, "How's everyone doing?"

"Who are you?" asked a panicked voice, while another, faintly familiar, said, "Doherty busted his head real good, Harley. We oughta go."

"Yep," I said, finding the keys at the officer's belt and ducking out of the van. "Coming!"

On my way back to Ace, I pulled the back of the van open. As our men and the other prisoners filed out, I unlocked Ace's cuffs and pressed the keys into his hand. "Get the rest of the guys uncuffed," I said, and pushed past him to check on the cops driving the first van.

They were a pair of Gotham's finest, fully conscious but making no move to stop the bust, and when I opened the door and said, "Come on, smart guys, toss your guns," they obeyed without protest. I rewarded them with a beaming smile. "Stay put, 'kay?" I chirped, and closed the door with a bang.

By the time I returned to the back, our last guy was dropping his cuffs to the ground. Ace pointed to the pair from the other van—Mex was supporting Doherty, whose head had a wide, dripping gash in it. "See that?" he demanded.

"Ewwww," I said. "Sorry, Doherty, we'll get that patched up soon." I glanced around, getting a quick head count, and finding all of the arrested accounted for, I pointed my thumb over my shoulder. "If they hadn't called for backup already, they'll be doing it now," I said. "Are we, uh… are we ready?"

"After you, princess," Ace said, and the casual venom in his tone almost sounded pleasant in its familiarity. I saluted, then vaulted over what was left of the median, the thud of heavy boots behind me signifying that the fellows were following.

It was a short, twisty run to where I'd stashed the car, and the one I was most worried about, Doherty, made it without needing help, though he looked pale and dizzy.

 _Still alive,_ I thought as I tapped the top of the car, _that's what matters._ "Pile in," I ordered, and pointed casually at Ace as they started to obey. "You better find something to clean up that cut, cause you get to be the guy who runs in and picks up the pizza."

* * *

We weren't exactly hailed as conquering heroes upon our return home, nor did it put a screeching stop to the little gladiator trials in the basement—those were mostly done with by the time we all got back, the majority of the guys sitting around nursing busted-up faces and concussions. The pizza got more of a reaction than the return of their comrades, given that the hideout had been virtually out of food for days by then, and there was a general uproar as everyone moved to gather food and welcome the missing back home with good-natured shoulder slaps and punches and one decidedly _bad_ -natured skirmish between one of the men who'd been arrested and one who had not. Aleksis, who had just come back from Anfisa's, was dispatched to her place again with Doherty in tow. The whole hideout was suddenly a teeming mass of activity.

At one point, the Joker appeared in the doorway, presumably seeking the source of the din—he showed up at the exact moment that Ace, miraculously, produced the remote control from the very couch cushions the guys who'd been ordered to search for it had been sitting on hours before. I'd have scolded them, but it wouldn't do any good, and besides, I was distracted by the Joker's presence. He stood in the back doorway, eyes racing across the room, taking it all in, and then, deliberately, they crept over to me.

I stared back from across the room, waiting stoically for a reaction. I could see him being irritated that I struck out on my own, brought people home he might have considered not worth the trouble, spoiled our men by getting them food rather than making them scrounge for themselves, but he could also—and this was a long shot—he could also be happy with me, proud of me for branching out a little, for taking the initiative to bring more men back into the fold to the benefit of our little operation.

He said nothing, in the end. He just gave me this eerie little half-smile that could have meant anything, black eyes softening up as his scars twitched, and then he turned and disappeared silently into the darkness at the back of the building.

Around that time, I figured I'd had quite enough for one day. My concern for his busted foot seemed a distant memory now as the need for sleep encompassed practically everything else, and I figured if he wanted to overextend himself, then he was a grown man and would do what he wanted, as always. I did not sign on for two days awake, no matter how he might try to twist it. I slipped easily out of the main area, leaving the men to their food and fighting and general rest, and I went to my favorite place to be alone in the hideout, a former apartment with a locking door, where I kept a sleeping bag and some pillows in case I wanted or was required to sleep somewhere that wasn't the Joker's bed. I locked myself away, curled up, and went to sleep.

By the time I woke up, sore from hours on end spent curled up in the same position and feeling like I'd slept for years, it was mid-afternoon, and all of the henchmen were either asleep or had cleared out. I took advantage of the quiet and settled on the couch to watch TV— _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_ had just started, and it wasn't often that I got to pick a movie without having to weather whining and protests from a bunch of guys who thought _The Expendables_ was the pinnacle of art.

About a half-hour in, a floorboard creaked behind me, my only warning before a body came vaulting over the back of the couch and landed heavily beside me. The couch creaked and shifted alarmingly, and if I hadn't been too busy jumping out of my skin I might have worried that it would collapse.

It held, and I glared at the Joker as my heart slipped back out of my mouth and down back to my chest where it belonged. "I take it your foot is feeling better," I said accusingly.

He didn't bother to respond to that, eyes fixed on the screen, and after a moment, he pointed and said, "This is really weird porn."

I scoffed and crossed my arms, trying not to let him see how pleased I was to see him. He casually reached around me to grab up the remote where I'd put it down on the arm of the couch, but left his arm heavy across my shoulders even after he had it in hand and changed the channel from _Rocky Horror_ to GCN.

I didn't protest. I found that a good night's sleep had cleared up my irritation with him, and so I molded myself yieldingly around him, turning sideways and slipping my legs over his, leaning against his side. He was in an indulgent mood—at least, he pushed his mouth absently against my forehead even as he kept his gaze trained on the news, then turned and rubbed his scars against it several times, like he was scratching an itch.

Even though I had just slept, and slept well, I rested my head on his shoulder and relaxed. There would be more work and motion and frenzy later, when night fell and the men came back and the Joker rolled out whatever plan he'd been cooking up while stuck at home. I would be wherever I needed to be, front and center, on the sidelines, maybe left out entirely, stuck at home and out of my mind with worry.

 _Later_. For now, I closed my eyes, hand creeping across his chest to land on his heart and letting the quick, steady thud against my palm lull me again to rest.

**Author's Note:**

> To those who celebrate it, Happy Halloween! I apologize if this is all a bit sloppy technically; I was determined to post it today and had only a day to edit the draft, so I might have overlooked some errors. I'll try to tidy it up over time.
> 
> The Rocky Horror Picture show was playing pretty much on repeat while I wrote the last half of this, so it felt right to feature it. I genuinely apologize if Tim Curry bled through into this fic otherwise, but then, given the occasion, it may have been inevitable. "One million dollars" is cribbed straight from Always Sunny in Philadelphia. If you haven't read Matilda, you should, because Roald Dahl's children's books are horrific in a delightful way even if he was a pervy anti-semite in a not-delightful way outside of them. I love Steve Buscemi, but he's pretty repulsive in Fargo (movie, not TV series, both of which you should also watch). The Britney Spears music video was, naturally, "Hit Me Baby One More Time" and it was playing during one of those "best of the 90s" music channel programming blocks. I've never seen The Expendables, but it seems like something guys who work for the Joker would enjoy.
> 
> Right now I'm marking this as complete, because at the moment, it does stand alone, but given that the day-in-the-life sort of approach was largely inspired by various tumblr asks and prompts and there are a lot more of those left, I'm not ruling out posting more sort of domestic pieces under this specific umbrella, so it might be a good idea to put it on alert if you enjoyed reading this!
> 
> Future works in the Bad Jokes 'verse? You betchya. When? No idea. I'm trying to finish up the next part of my other Joker series, and if you've been here a while, you know I'm a slow and easily distracted writer, the actual worst at committing to writing certain fic by a certain time. I do know that the influx of comments and messages I've received from a bunch of y'all recently definitely spurred me to throw this together. I genuinely appreciate the continued support and encouragement; you're the absolute best. Until next time!


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